Recueil des beaux hommes du monde des arts martiaux

Chapitre 12

Fan Qingbo began to feel deeply guilty. She shouldn't have been reborn, shouldn't have met these lunatics, and shouldn't have met the Zhou family. Making a dignified general buy a pornographic book every day? Compared to the personal attacks General Zhou had inflicted on her in the past, these people's antics were utterly childish.

She quietly raised her head and saw Zhou Zice looking in her direction, which startled her so much that she froze.

Fortunately, he only glanced at her with a frown before looking away. Right, in his eyes, she was the Minister's wife at that moment; perhaps he was wondering how Fan Qingbo knew the Minister's wife…

Her two identities couldn't be revealed to anyone, so she had to avoid people in the court as much as possible. After learning Zhou Zice's true identity, she had decided to extinguish all her romantic feelings, but out of selfishness, she maintained a friendship with him until things spiraled out of control, at which point she finally resolved to sever all ties. In truth, she was the one who wronged him.

But now, things have developed to this point, which is something she never expected. She never imagined that her relationship with the General's Mansion would become so complicated. Just thinking about how she would face General Zhou, who came to buy books tomorrow, gave her a headache.

She remained in a daze for the rest of the time, completely unaware of how she got through it. She had no recollection of how she returned to the Prime Minister's residence, how she changed her clothes, or how she said goodbye to Jie Dongfeng. When she came to her senses, she was already on her way home.

In the still of the night, only the patter of her footsteps echoed in the empty alley.

A cool breeze blew through the hall, and I suddenly woke up. Xie Dongfeng's words replayed in my mind.

"You're my family's cash cow, how can I let anyone bully you for nothing?"

"So, we've avenged you. Aren't you happy? Aren't you moved?"

"Don't worry, that kid Zhou Zice shouldn't bother you anymore."

"Happy my foot! Moved my ass! Isn't she the one who has to clean up the mess? What revenge? They're just playing around." The last sentence does make some sense, though. Although Zhou Zice is rebellious, he deeply admires and respects his father. Now that his father has been humiliated because of her, it's unlikely he'll come looking for her again.

Thinking of this, Fan Qingbo felt somewhat conflicted.

It was natural to feel relieved, but after that feeling subsided, a sense of emptiness lingered. After all, it had been four years, and he was the only man who didn't care about her reputation and genuinely appreciated and loved her. If she hadn't been through so much, if she had been more impulsive, perhaps she would have recklessly pursued her love.

But her heart was too old; she no longer had that strength.

Maybe in a few years, she'll lose all enthusiasm for work and writing. Then she'll find someone to marry—a widower or a farmer, as long as he's honest, reliable, and healthy—and have a few kids to play with. No, before that, she should sell this sick guy. Her market value is already low; if she gets sick again, maybe no one will even want her, even if she pays out of pocket…

I wandered aimlessly, dragging my weary body, until it was almost dawn when I arrived at Huaxiang Alley.

From afar, I saw a lump of something in front of the door across from hers. Curious, I went over and found the scholar lying on the ground, seemingly asleep.

"Are you crazy? Why aren't you sleeping in your own room, instead of sleeping by the front door? What's wrong with you?"

Fan Qingbo muttered to himself, then yawned sleepily, squatted down, and nudged him, "Hey, scholar, what's wrong with you?" Suddenly, he noticed that the spot where his hand had touched him was sticky, and when he looked up, he saw it was blood!

Her legs went weak, and she sat down on the ground with a thud. The last words Xie Dongfeng had said to her flashed through her mind like lightning.

"The top scholar was pulled into a room by a courtesan, but he disappeared the next day. The courtesan, on the other hand, had her tendons severed and died a violent death on her bed."

Author's Note: Finished!

Routine appeal: Girls, stop being so domineering!

9

9. Each person's heart is stirring with the first stirrings of spring...

Fan Bing waited all night for the door to open, and finally dozed off around dawn from sheer exhaustion. Half-asleep, he heard the door open, and jolted awake to see Fan Qingbo stumbling in. As she got closer, he noticed her face was frighteningly pale.

"Master, are you alright? What happened?"

Fan Qingbo seemed to have no strength left to speak, collapsing directly into a grand chair. Fan Bingling deftly went to pour tea, but finding the teapot icy cold, he quickly picked it up and ran to the inner room. "Master, I'll go warm the teapot!"

He hadn't run two steps when he was called back.

"No need, you can go back to your room and sleep."

Although Fan Bing was somewhat worried, he obediently put down the teapot and left, turning back every few steps. Hesitantly, he walked to the courtyard, but then remembered Fan Qingbo's tired and struggling expression as she held her forehead. Panicked, he gritted his teeth and turned back.

Halfway there, I heard a series of calls coming from the hall: "Illness strike! Illness strike!" Each call was urgent.

He quickened his pace. "Master, I'm here!"

At this moment, Fan Qingbo stood up, supporting himself on a chair. His face had changed to a resolute expression. He closed his eyes as if he were going all out, biting his lower lip. "Go, drag the scholar lying dead at the door into the room."

The scholar, dazed and confused, was tossed and turned, bumping and stumbling, suffering terribly. Several times he wanted to kill those tormenting him, but was always distracted by a faint, almost imperceptible fragrance. The scent was unlike any ordinary perfume or cosmetic; it possessed the sweetness of fruit wine, the tranquility of pear blossoms, and the elegance of peonies, all blended together to create a serene joy that involuntarily suppressed his murderous intent…

"ah……"

He was suddenly slapped hard on the back, and a burning pain spread from the wound. He heard a flurry of activity inside the room, and a woman screamed, "I'm going to die from this attack! Are you applying medicine or trying to kill me? Let me do it!"

Then the fragrance drew closer, and a boy's voice mumbled again. He couldn't hear it clearly, only that the woman cursed something, and the boy slammed the door and left angrily. Then, the room fell silent. Actually, it wasn't particularly quiet, because the woman's mouth seemed to keep moving.

"A favor received is remembered for a thousand years. I went through so much trouble to save you, you must repay me."

A damp towel was wiping his back, and he nodded to himself.

"Oh no, your identity is a mystery, and you're facing another bloody disaster. I don't expect you to repay me. Just remember not to drag me down with you."

Another "smack" on his back, and he almost cried out. Girl, are you applying medicine or trying to murder me?! Your methods are no less ruthless than that of the young man before! Before he could protest, she pulled him off the bed and pressed him heavily against her shoulder. Caught off guard, his breath was already filled with her fragrance.

In his drowsy state, a pair of hands, though not particularly gentle, were warm enough to wrap around his back and begin to bandage it.

"It's still not good. I've saved you twice already. If I don't ask for anything in return... I'm not a Mary Sue, why should I be a saint?"

He seemed to be gradually piecing together the woman's image—the voice, the tone, the matter-of-fact manner. A smile slowly crept onto his lips, but quickly vanished as he was thrown onto the bed again. This time, face down. He could understand she was afraid of touching the wound on his back, but what was this uncontrollable, gushing, warm moisture emanating from his nose…?

"How about this, I remember you have a silver hairpin that's worth some money. I'll reluctantly take it and we'll call it even. If you don't answer after I count to three, then it's a deal, one, two, three, okay? Thank you."

The woman's voice grew increasingly indistinct, yawning two or three times between sentences. When she finally said "thank you," she was barely breathing. Then tragedy struck again—she pressed her entire body against his wound and fell asleep.

His muscles tensed, and the tearing pain turned his face deathly pale, with cold sweat pouring out incessantly.